Mr. Fluffybutt

A few days ago, our beloved Mr. Fluffybutt was eaten by a dog.

(A vicious, mean, lower-than-a-snake's-belly, prowling, good-for-nothing - well, you get the idea - dog.) Actually, the dog was just being a dog, and unfortunately chickens are just above Gravy Train on the food chain.

He was a good and gentle rooster, not the kind who would peck at the back of your leg. He seemed to sense that we humans were on his side, and welcome our help in caring for his hens.

Mr. Fluffybutt was very officious in his duties; he would run from afar and stab the ground with his wings in anger or alarm when presented with a problem in his flock. He strutted, but he wasn't overly arrogant.

I miss him a lot.

Mrs. Fluffybutt misses him, too, but has folded herself under the protective wing of Morgana-Turned-Morgan (that is another story you can find elsewhere on this blog.) Morgan is technically her nephew, I think, but that's okay.

We live in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains.

Our adorable, tiny, banty Aracauna hen, Peep, has gone broody (for the uninitiated, this means that Peep will sit on eggs - any eggs - with a sense of duty that defines maternal dedication. You could take an egg from just about anything out to her (newly created) Royal Brood Chamber and get her to sit on it right now.

We have an egg (a very precious egg) from Mrs. Fluffybutt that could hold the promise of a banty Cochin rooster or hen. This is a very exciting proposition, and we are watching closely for the next twenty-one days. (Go, Peep!)

Obviously, you will be updated on this blog, and inundated with pictures of whatever newly-hatched chicks Peep produces. Her "due date" is around April 6th.

We could even have a rooster named Fluffybutter (Fluffybutt - Fluffybutter - Fluffybuttest), but my sense of humor and name selection are not always fully appreciated around here. We'll see.

We also lost one of our terrific Rhode Island Reds in the attack.

R.I.P. Zeus and Mr. Fluffybutt.





Love from Delta.